Jackson Bollocks

I’ve been listening to Peter Frase’s Four Futures book after my big brother Dave recommended it to me while thinking about our work on AI in adult social care. What struck me was not what was in the book, but what wasn’t.

AI barely gets mentioned.

That probably reflects when the book was written, but almost every question it raises now feels more relevant because of AI.
The book explores four possible futures shaped by abundance or scarcity, and equality or hierarchy. Underneath that sits a simple question: who gets to live a full life in the future, and who gets left behind?

Reading it alongside our work on the WM ADASS AI Playbook and some recent scenario work with EY has left me thinking about the phrase “working age adults”.
It is a useful administrative term, but it can quietly reduce people to whether they are in paid employment or not. Adult social care knows life is more complicated than that.

People contribute in all sorts of ways: through caring, creativity, volunteering, relationships, lived experience and community life.
One thing largely absent from Four Futures is discussion about people with complex needs or disabilities. Yet AI may prove most important precisely for people whose intelligence, personality or creativity are currently restricted by physical or communication barriers.

I found myself thinking about Stephen Hawking.
Here was somebody with an extraordinary mind living in a body that progressively stopped working in conventional ways. Technology allowed him to communicate, teach, write and participate in public life.

AI could extend those possibilities much further for many more people.
Not by “fixing” disabled people, but by helping people express more of who they already are.
That feels important.

Much of the AI debate still revolves around productivity, labour markets and efficiency. Adult social care probably needs to ask different questions.

Can AI help somebody communicate?
Can it support independence?
Can it reduce isolation?
Can it help people organise daily life, relationships and support?
Can it help somebody contribute in ways that matter to them?

Those feel like care questions rather than technology questions.
At the same time, there are very different futures hidden inside the same technology.

One future is hopeful. AI supports communication, participation and autonomy. People who may previously have struggled to access education, employment or social connection gain new ways into the world.
Another future is more uncomfortable. AI becomes mainly about efficiency, monitoring and reducing costs. Human contact thins out. Support becomes increasingly transactional.
Technology helps systems cope, but not necessarily people live better lives.

That tension has surfaced repeatedly in our own scenario work around AI and adult social care. Interestingly, the scenarios are rarely really about technology. They are usually about values, trust and the kind of society we want to become.
This also connects with Tim Jackson’s writing on the care economy. Care is not simply a production problem to optimise. Some of the most important things in life are relational: reassurance, companionship, continuity, humour, kindness and presence.

My own cancer experience reinforced that. The treatment involved remarkable technology, but what stays with me most are the human interactions around it: conversations, calmness, practical help and small acts of kindness.
Perhaps that is the real challenge AI poses to adult social care.

Not whether machines become more intelligent.
But whether people remain visible.
Listening to Four Futures has reminded me that technology does not shape the future on its own. Values do.

The real question may not be how powerful AI becomes, but what kind of society it helps us build.

Somewhere along the way, without quite naming it at the time, I think I’ve been on a journey towards what Aristotle called eudaimonia.
Not happiness in the simple sense. Not comfort. Not even ease.
Something deeper. A life that feels aligned. Lived with purpose. Held together by values rather than circumstance.

If I look back, this wasn’t a path I chose in any neat or deliberate way. It began, as many things do, with something unwelcome. A diagnosis. A moment where life narrows and sharpens. Where control slips, and uncertainty takes its place.

There’s a Stoic clarity in those moments. As Marcus Aurelius reminds us, some things are up to us, and some things are not.
The illness wasn’t.
What followed was.

I didn’t respond perfectly—far from it—but I kept going. Walking at first. Then running. Couch to 5K. Parkrun. Training nights with others. Eventually standing on the start line of the London Marathon, carrying not just my own story, but the weight and support of many people I had met along the way.

Looking back now, the running was never just about running. It was structure. It was discipline. It was a way of staying in conversation with my body when it would have been easier to retreat from it. A quiet, repeated act of saying: I am still here.

Alongside that came something else—a growing sense of purpose beyond myself.
Work in social care has always mattered to me, but it feels different now. More grounded. More urgent. More connected to lived experience. The systems, the data, the policies—they all mean something, but only if they lead back to people and the lives they are trying to live.
That connection—between the technical and the human—has become a thread I keep returning to.

Then there is the creative side. The writing. The artwork. The attempts to make sense of it all.
I’ve found that telling the story matters. Not in a grand or performative way, but as a way of understanding. Taking something that happened to me and slowly shaping it into something that sits with me. Something I can share, reflect on, and, occasionally, even find meaning in.

And running through all of this is a simple principle I’ve come back to time and again:
Keep on keeping on.

It’s not sophisticated philosophy. But it holds.
Because eudaimonia, as I understand it now, isn’t something you arrive at. It’s not a finish line, like the one on The Mall. It’s closer to a practice. A way of living that brings together how you think, what you do, and what you value.

There are still uncertainties ahead. Health checks. Future plans. Questions about work and retirement. The usual mix of hope and doubt.
But there’s also a growing sense that the path itself—this steady movement forward, this willingness to engage with whatever comes—is the point.

Not despite the challenges, but because of how you meet them.

If the obstacle really does become the way, then perhaps this is what a life moving towards eudaimonia looks like.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
But lived, deliberately, one step at a time.

I read this question in the Observer’s London Marathon souvenir edition a week after the race. At the time, I hadn’t really thought about it like that.

On the day itself, it didn’t feel like history. It felt like effort. Like noise, heat, movement. Like putting one foot in front of the other for 26.2 miles.

But looking back, I realise I was there on a day when something shifted.

The elites were redefining what’s possible. A barrier that had stood for decades—two hours—was not just nudged, but broken in the raw, unpredictable reality of a race. No laboratory conditions. Just people, pavement, and pain.

And further back in the field, thousands of us were running our own races.

For me, that journey started in a very different place. From a cancer diagnosis. From a radiotherapy mask. From starting again with Couch to 5K last January. Slowly rebuilding, step by step, with the support of family, friends, work colleagues, and the brilliant people at Lawley Running Club.

Standing on that start line, and then crossing the finish, wasn’t just about a marathon. It was about what sits behind it.

There were moments in the race when it hurt—really hurt. And in those moments, my mind drifted to the people I’ve met over the last two years. Others going through treatment. Others waiting for results. Others carrying their own challenges quietly.

The phrase I kept coming back to was the one that has carried me through all of this:
Keep on keeping on.

The article ends with a simple truth: everybody hurts.

That’s what connects all of us—from the front of the race to the back. Different paces, different stories, but the same human experience of pushing through.

So how did it feel to be part of history?

It didn’t feel like history at the time.

But now I can see it clearly. On a day when the limits of the sport moved forward, I was also moving my own.

Different race. Same truth.

Fourteen miles from home, but it felt like a different world.

We started gently—on the River Severn loop, drifting on the Sabrina boat while a singer closed her acoustic set with Proud Mary—“rolling on a river”—echoing across the water. A fitting beginning.

From there, into the rhythm of the town. Food at the The Armoury, then a couple of pints of Naked Lady in The Three Fishes before crossing to St Mary’s Church.

Seeing Ian Prowse there—someone from Ellesmere Port, my own town—brought things full circle. His set wasn’t just music; it was history and purpose, reminding us of “Dessie” Warren and the struggle of the building workers who helped create Telford.

Saturday gave way to Sunday with a slower pace.

A walk back into town, the People’s Choir lifting spirits with songs about finding your own rhythm—no rush, no pressure, just participation.

A pint of White Rat in The Woodman, a quiet moment with the Observer and the small satisfaction of seeing my marathon result in print. Then on to Shrewsbury Castle, where Callum Pookie and friends brought energy and noise back into the day.

The afternoon carried us through to the  Admiral Benbow and into something more reflective—the Lingen Davies exhibition at Swan Hill Studios, sharing space with friends and stories that matter.

Then down to The Quarry for HENGE—surreal, otherworldly, and oddly perfect. Their take on how a festival might look to aliens somehow made complete sense.

We closed it out properly. A great curry at The Curry House, then on to the new LoopFest venue near the station to see old friends The Nightingales, led by Robert Lloyd—tight, driving, inventive, even a kazoo solo thrown in for good measure.

Across the weekend—music, pints, walking, conversation—woven together with familiar faces and chance encounters.

A birthday shared with Liz.

And a moment to remember Mark, who would have been 65 this weekend.

That’s what stays with you in the end. Not just the bands or the venues—but the people, the connections, and the sense of being part of something, even if only for a couple of days.

Keep on keeping on.

I welcome the ambition of the National Cancer Plan. It is confident, forward-looking and clear in its belief that science and technology can transform cancer outcomes. Earlier diagnosis, better prevention and more personalised treatment will save lives. That matters.

But the real test of this plan is not how advanced it looks on paper — it is whether it makes care feel more human, more timely and more joined-up for people living with cancer.

The plan is unmistakably technology-led. AI, genomics, predictive analytics, digital diagnostics and the NHS App sit at its heart. Much of this is right. But cancer is never just a clinical experience. It is emotional, social and practical. It reshapes confidence, work, relationships and everyday life — often long after treatment ends.

Technology can shorten waits and improve decisions. It cannot sit with someone after an appointment, normalise fear, or replace the reassurance that comes from talking to someone who has “been there”.

That is why care, lived experience and peer support must be designed into the system — not left to emerge by accident.

This is where Lingen Davies Cancer Fund fits. Not as a substitute for NHS care, but as a partner — supporting recovery, wellbeing, confidence and care closer to home. The £5m campaign for a new cancer ward in Telford is not just about buildings. It is about local access, dignity and continuity, shaped by real lives.

I support the direction of travel set out in the National Cancer Plan. But its success depends on a simple principle:

Technology should create time and space for care — not crowd it out.

If we hold onto that, the future of cancer care can be smarter — and kinder too.

I went out this morning with a slight leg twinge, so I made a decision early not to push it. Instead of treating it as a training run, I let it become a run-and-explore, using the Cinderloo route to see how it works as something others might follow.

I started at Lawley, by the Morrisons store that sits on or very close to the Lightmoor Fault. The developers have marked it with a jagged pathway in the paving — an easily missed detail, but once noticed, hard to ignore. I ran over it without stopping, but I felt it underfoot. The ground there is presented as smooth and modern, yet it quietly acknowledges that something beneath is broken.

From Lawley the route moves into Telford Town Park and then into quieter ground. I slowed, walked briefly, and looked around. Under a tree brought down by recent weather, I spotted a dark, flat piece of stone half-embedded in the mud. I picked it up and carried on.

At the same time, I was listening to Robert Macfarlane’s The Old Ways. Almost exactly as I lifted the stone, he said: “Walking is a way to find treasure.” The timing felt precise rather than sentimental.

The stone is mudstone or shale — layered sediment compressed over time, splitting along fine planes. It’s the sort of material that sits beneath this whole landscape. Not decorative. Not rare. It only shows itself when the ground has been disturbed.

That feels important.

The run began on a fault line — geological first, social later. Lawley is retail, new town, smooth surfaces. Beneath it are coal measures, pressure, fracture. The route then crosses the same foundations that shaped labour, extraction, and protest, before skirting monuments, places of worship, event spaces, and car parks. Layers of use laid one on top of another.

Eventually the path narrows. Trees close in. Fallen branches, moss, lichen, fungi. The land still doing its own work. Here, the idea that running or walking is a way of finding treasure stops being metaphorical. Moving more slowly puts the body at the right speed to notice what the ground is willing to reveal.

I didn’t go looking for the stone. It surfaced because the land had been broken — by weather, roots, time — and because I wasn’t rushing past it.

The leg twinge didn’t compromise the run. It shaped it. It allowed space for noticing, for adapting, for letting the route set the terms rather than forcing my own.

I came home with a steady, honest run in the legs and a piece of the landscape in my hand. The stone now sits on my desk. It’s unremarkable to look at, but it holds the whole route inside it: pressure, fracture, labour, disturbance, recovery.

Not every run needs to be about pace or progress. Some runs are about alignment — moving through a place in a way that lets it speak back.

This morning, running really was a way to find treasure.

Today I went to the funeral of my second cousin at Whitton church. It was cold and wet, with steady January rain. The church was full, so we stood close together in the porch to keep dry. When the coffin arrived, we followed it inside. There were no seats left, so we stood in the aisle for the service.

The service was simple and beautifully done. A line was read about people walking the same paths over time. It stayed with me. Buildings remain. Paths remain. People pass through them for a while.

The mass card reflected Chris’s life very clearly. The music, the readings, and the choices felt thoughtful and personal, without being overworked. Morning Has Broken felt right on a wet winter day — about beginnings, seasons, and ordinary goodness. A reading inspired by The Old Ways spoke about paths and continuity, which fitted the place and the moment perfectly.

One of the most moving parts was the poem written for “Nana”. It spoke about gardening, animals, digging, planting, and learning how to help things grow. Simple memories, everyday acts of care, and love shown through doing rather than saying. It captured her beautifully.
The photographs on the card told the same story. Childhood close to animals and land. Family life, dogs, grandchildren, walks, and being present. A life lived steadily, shaped by routine, care, and kindness.

After the service, she was buried beside her parents, in the same church where she had been baptised and married. It felt complete — one place holding the whole of a life. We met members of our extended family, some not seen for many years. We were thanked for coming, but it was a real pleasure to reconnect.

On the walk to the church, we passed Chris’s parents’ bungalow, about 200 metres away. I remembered a photo taken there in 1966 — me and my dad standing outside. An ordinary moment then, with no idea of what that place would later hold. Walking past it today brought those two moments together.

Chris was caring and nurturing. She loved animals from an early age — lambing, working outdoors, being close to the seasons. She loved gardening too, planting seeds and quietly looking after things as they grew. Simple things, but full of meaning.

She had a son with autism who relies on routine. He may not be able to put his grief into words, but he will feel her absence deeply through changes in daily life. The care she gave him does not disappear. It lives on in routines and in the people who will continue to look after him.

Standing in the aisle, cold and close together, I felt the strength of ritual. People have gathered in that church like this for hundreds of years. Different lives, the same paths, the same need to come together.

A photo from 1966. A walk in 2026. The same place, a lifetime apart.

Buildings remain. Paths remain. And for a while, so do we.

Last night, 2 January 2026, we went to the Little Bengal to mark a very specific and welcome occasion: another clean bill of health following my latest appointment with my tongue cancer consultant. It felt entirely fitting to celebrate that news in a place that, for our family, is woven into decades of shared life.

For over forty years, we’ve marked birthdays, reunions and quiet catch-ups here, stretching back to the late 1980s when it was still universally known as Mister Dave’s. Even now, many of us still call it that, regardless of the name above the door.

Set at the top of Dawley High Street, next door to the Elephant and Castle, it remains exactly what it has always been: a friendly, no-nonsense place for a great balti, bring-your-own drinks, and a warm, unpretentious atmosphere. It’s a spot we continue to recommend without hesitation.
When Mister Dave’s first opened, it quietly revolutionised how curry was eaten in Telford. Founded in 1984 by Dave Homer, it is widely remembered as the first balti house established outside Birmingham. At its peak, it even became part of a small chain stretching from the Black Country to Dawley.

The origin story has passed into local folklore. Dave, it’s said, loved curry so much that he persuaded a Birmingham balti house to teach him how to cook—working there unpaid for a few weeks. He then opened his first restaurant on Lye High Street, cooking himself after finishing his day job. From those beginnings, something genuinely new arrived in towns like ours.
At the time, “curry” for many people still meant the bland, beige school-dinner versions of the 1970s and early 80s—mince, raisins, curry powder and water. Mister Dave’s was different. Proper balti cooking, fresh flavours, naan bread used as intended, and food that felt exciting and communal. Once people tasted it, there was no going back. It helped set curry firmly on the path to becoming the UK’s most popular restaurant food.

The experience was as distinctive as the menu. You queued outside—sometimes a long way up the High Street. Seating was strictly first-come, first-served. Sharing a table with strangers was common and often part of the fun. The décor was simple and practical: plastic tablecloths, metal balti bowls, cutlery only if you asked for it. A poppadom, katlama starter, balti special and naan for £5.25—bring your own booze—and you were sorted.

Mister Dave’s closed in the mid-1990s, giving way to Bengal Spice, run over the years by Anwar and then Ash. Today, under new hands with Josh, the Little Bengal continues that lineage. Names have changed, but the essence hasn’t.
It remains a Dawley institution—proof that food is not just about what you eat, but where you eat it, who you eat it with, and the moments—quietly celebratory or otherwise—that gather around a table over time.

Original blog published October 2013

With thanks to Andypeeuk, and sources including Wikipedia, Telford Live and Telford’s Tweeters for background and local history.